He looked at the face again. She was "like a flower." How could he have found it in his heart to blame her, even by the remotest thought?
"I'm sure," came the plaintive voice again, "you ought not to blame her. I think it's perfectly natural."
Dr. Horton turned toward her, with a cheerful smile.
"Yes, it is quite natural. Of course I have taken every precaution; but it was wrong of me to come without finding out how she felt. Tell her I will not come again until"—he paused, with an unpleasant feeling in his throat—"until she wishes me to come."
"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, rising with an alacrity which betrayed how great was her relief, "you must know what a trial it is to her, Roger. The poor girl feels so badly. You are not angry?" giving her hand, but holding the camphorated handkerchief between them.
"No," Dr. Horton said, taking the reluctant fingers a moment, "not at all angry."
He went away into the outer darkness, walking a little heavily. The house-door shut behind him with a harsh, inhospitable clang, and as he went down the steps the wind blew a naked, dripping woodbine-spray sharply against his cheek, giving him a curiously unpleasant thrill.
When he was part way down the walk, he looked back. At the upper window the girlish figure was still visible, the face still pressed against the pane. His heart bounded at the sight, and then sank with a sense of remoteness and loss for which, a moment later, he chided himself bitterly.
Mrs. Fairfield waited only until she believed Roger was off the grounds, when she threw open all the windows in the room, sprinkled everything liberally with carbolic acid, and went up-stairs to her daughter.
She found Florence standing at the window where she had left her.